


And Since the Roof Fell In, I'll Lean On What Matters

by Tito11



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:07:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tito11/pseuds/Tito11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve was Howard's trophy wife, but now that Howard's dead, he's become Tony's problem. And since Tony hasn't spoken to either his father or the Whore in years, the fact that Howard left Steve something pretty big and important in his will might just make things complicated for the both of them. Of course, Steve's secret isn't making the situation any easier, either, because no matter what Tony seems to think, it was never only about the money. Both of them just want to get through the transitioning period intact, but Howard, it seems, may have had other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i know you don't want excuses, but i've been pretty good lately about updates, so here's something new, just for funsies. 
> 
> Title from "Hurricane" by the Hush Sound

Tony’s father dies on a Saturday. He’s not surprised when he gets the call. The man’s been drinking like a fish for years, ever since Tony can remember, and he’s never been especially good about not driving while smashed. Between that and the high stress nature of his job, Tony’s not exactly shocked it all got to him sooner rather than later. Since it’s the Whore on the phone, Tony goes ahead and makes his feelings known.

“Shocker,” he says, drily. “Was it a heart attack from all the booze combined with the job or a car crash from all the booze combined with him being a fucking idiot?”

“It was a car accident,” Steve admits solemnly, voice breaking a bit at the end. “They said he was killed instantly.”

“What a pity,” Tony says, feeling spiteful.

“Well,” Steve says primly, like the uptight princess he is. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Will you be coming home for the funeral?”

He sounds like he expects Tony to be upset or something, like he hasn’t been around for the past five years of Tony and his father giving each other the silent treatment, like he hasn’t been the one faking Christmas gifts from each of them to the other, being the only barrier that’s stopped the inevitable supernova if father and son ever actually interacted on a personal level.

“Let me check my calendar,” Tony says. “I might have a party or something to go to that night, maybe a movie premiere.”

And that’s when Steve hangs up on him.

Tony just shrugs and goes back to his welding. It’s only later, after he’s given it a bit of thought, that he starts to feel bad. After all, it’s not Steve’s fault that Tony can’t stand his father. Couldn’t. Couldn’t stand his father. As in, past tense. As in, he’s dead.

“Well, what does he expect?” Tony asks Dummy. He reaches out to pet him and notices his hands are shaking. “Just because the guy’s dead now is no reason for me to go home and play Happy Families with the Whore.”

Dummy doesn’t answer, probably because Tony never gave him any voice protocols, but he does nuzzle up against Tony’s hand, demanding more scritches. Tony gives them. Dummy’s the only family he’s got, really, even before Howard kicked the bucket, and even if he can’t talk, or maybe especially because he can’t talk, he’s the best little robot any inventor could want.

“And anyway,” Tony continues, turning away to grab his welder again, “it’s not like we talked while he was still alive. He probably wouldn’t even want me at his funeral. What would I even say, ‘Oh you were a shitty Dad while you were alive, and kind of also a pedophile, but hey, now that you’re dead, I’m sure gonna miss you. I hope you left that Whore lots of money for putting up with sucking your nasty dick all these years.”

He stops, appalled with himself for thinking about his dad fucking that Whore. What the hell is wrong with him, seriously? Then he thinks of something even more alarming.

“Oh my God, Dummy,” he says, dropping the welder with it still on and fucking his project all to hell before he manages to get it turned off. “What if he leaves the company to the Whore?”

Dummy still doesn’t answer, because once again, voice protocols, and man, Tony has to get on that. But either way, that settles it: Tony has to go home, at least for the execution of the will. If that dead bastard left the company to Steve, Tony is going to invent a time machine so he can go back and strangle the man himself. The house he can deal with, he never really liked it anyway, too many memories of a terrible childhood spent there, not to mention the memory he’s been suppressing of finding his mother’s body like that. The cars, too, he doesn’t really need, he can just buy his own. But the company? That’s Tony’s life’s work. He’s been contributing his ideas and inventions to SI’s R&D since his motor skills were barely developed enough to use a pen. If that Whore, that artist of a Whore gets put in charge of Tony’s company, well, Tony will just not be held responsible for his actions.

The shaking in his hands is worse than before, now, and Tony stares down at them, incredulous. Apparently, even when a guy hates his father, the news of his death still hits pretty hard. Obviously he’s not gonna get any more work done today.

“Hold the fort, little buddy,” he tells his bot. “I’m going to take a nap or something.”

He peels off his gloves and throws them down on the workbench, then starts toward the door. “Oh,” he says, remembering suddenly, “and book me a ticket back to New York. First class, too, none of that coach bullshit like last time.”

Dummy just tilts his head, questioningly and Tony sighs. “Never mind,” he says, lamenting at how dumb this robot is. “I’ll do it myself. You’re useless, I swear. I don’t even know why I keep you around.”

Of course, when he’s lying in bed a few minutes later, too wired to sleep but too shaken to do anything else, he remembers exactly why he keeps the little guy around. It’s because he doesn’t have any family left. Unless you count the Whore, of course, but Tony doesn’t. If there’s one thing Tony will never forgive his father for, it’s not the years of neglect, the abandonment at boarding school, or even driving his mother to suicide. No, the thing Tony will never, ever forgive, is marrying that Whore in the first place. 

 

Tony was fifteen when he found out his father was getting remarried, and it was a complete accident that he even found out at all. He’d been in the last stages of building Dummy, then, as a final project for his freshman year engineering courses, so he’d been holed up in the lab for about a month. Now, a month isn’t a long time, relatively speaking, and Tony’s worked on longer projects for far worse reasons, but apparently a month was long enough to miss headline news that effected Tony pretty personally, if only by proximity.

“So,” Rhodey said one day while he was visiting Tony in the lab, bringing him a change of clothes and Chinese takeout. “Have you talked to your dad yet?”

“About what?” Tony asked distractedly, most of his attention on the programing he was fine-tuning.

“His marriage,” Rhodey said, like it should be obvious. He sounded like that a lot around Tony, so Tony was used to it. His answers usually made more sense than that, though.

“What do you mean, ‘his marriage?’” Tony asked incredulously, finally looking up. “He doesn’t even date! Who would he be getting married to?”

“That twink,” Rhodey told him. “That art school twink he met at that fundraiser event. Tony, don’t you read the papers?”

“Not when they’re about my father,” Tony said, and it was true. The less he heard the press praise the old fucker, the less he wanted to burn the man’s house down in a fit of teenage pique. “Besides,” he added, going back to his code, since Rhodey clearly didn’t know what he was talking about, “I know we’re not on the best terms, but even Howard would call to tell his own son if he was getting married.”

 

Except, apparently he wouldn’t. The next time Tony called to chat Jarvis the butler up, he asked casually about it at the end of the conversation, as a joke really, because not even Howard was that much of a dick.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jarvis said, and he sounded really quite upset about the whole thing in that upright British way of his. “I’m afraid your father is, in fact, getting married. I thought he’d informed you.”

“Nah,” Tony said, like it didn’t even matter, and it shouldn’t have, even if it did, a bit. “It’s cool. When’s the wedding?”

“Next week,” Jarvis said disapprovingly. “They’re apparently very eager to be wed.”

“Jesus,” Tony said, even though he had a general rule about not swearing in front of Jarvis. This was a special case. “Are we sure this kid has honorable intentions? Not that I care,” he added quickly, in case Jarvis got ideas about repairing Tony’s relationship with his father. “Just, you know, I don’t want him wiping out the bank accounts before my trust fund kicks in.”

“Indeed, sir,” Jarvis said, knowingly, because he could always read Tony like a freaking book. “He seems like a very sweet young gentlemen, actually.”

“Then what’s he doing with Howard?” Tony wondered aloud.

“If only I knew, sir,” Jarvis answered, solemn again.

After that, the conversation turned to other things, and Tony pretty much forgot about the whole thing. Or, as much as he could, anyway, with the upcoming wedding in all the headlines. Tony had to go to the wedding, too, because Obi forced him, said it would look bad for the company if Howard’s own son wasn’t there to stand by him through the service.

So Tony went, and stood there, just like he was supposed to, and made faces for the cameras, like he wasn’t supposed to, and he even met the twink. Steve, his name was, and he was everything and nothing like Tony imagined. He was young and attractive, sure, just a couple of years older than Tony, in fact, and how sick was that, seriously, that this kid was banging Tony’s dad? But he was also sweet, and surprisingly uptight, looking all offended when Tony implied the marriage was a sham, which Tony knew just had to be an act. No one with as many morals as this Whore pretended to have would marry an old warmongering pervert like Howard, not unless they were after the money.

And that day was the day Tony decided to make his move to Boston a permanent one. He’s been there ever since, heading up a small branch of the company, checking in with Howard whenever absolutely necessary, but more often working with Obi to get things approved. Now, though, now that the man’s dead, Tony’s going to have to go back, probably fight for what’s rightfully his. And if that means going toe-to-toe with the Whore, well, so be it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, Steve's secret is kinda mentioned in this chapter, but you have to look close ;)

When Steve gets back to the mansion from his regularly scheduled appointment on Sunday evening, he’s only slightly surprised to see Anthony already there, making himself comfortable on the kitchen counter, not even using a chair, just sitting on the edge there with his legs dangling.

“People eat there,” Steve tells him, because it’s easier to focus on the little things like Anthony being a hooligan and a slob than the big thing that’s been haunting Steve since yesterday morning. He doesn’t want to think about his husband being dead and he doesn’t want to think about the funeral tomorrow. He’s already taken care of the arrangements, and now he just wants to not think for a while.

Fortunately, when Anthony’s in the room, he’s the only one there. He’s the center of attention and there’s just no space for Steve to think about anyone else. It’s always been that way, ever since Steve met him. Part of it is Anthony’s natural charisma, Steve’s sure, because even when he’s being a pain, he’s still such a charmer. The other part, though, the part that Steve usually focuses on, is that Anthony drives him up the wall. It’s like every single thing he does is designed to get on Steve’s nerves.

Case in point: sitting on the counter instead of the stool that’s right there, made for exactly that purpose.

Anthony just shrugs, the line of his shoulders rising and falling elegantly. He’s got a drink in one hand, what looks like a scotch on the rocks, and really, Anthony’s got no room to talk about his father being an alcoholic, not with the way he’s always drinking when he’s here. Not that he’s here often, but that’s not the point. And anyway, Anthony’s not even going to be twenty-one for another six months.

“This is illegal,” he points out. It’s the right thing to do. Steve was incredibly fond of his husband, even if it wasn’t quite love, but if there’s anything he can do to stop Anthony from becoming the man his father was, he’s going to do it, for both their sakes. “You’re no old enough to drink, yet.”

“So call the cops,” Anthony says, smiling with all his teeth in the way that Steve knows means he’s about to say something cruel. “Or better yet, call my father. Oh, wait! You can’t. He’s dead.”

It hits Steve like the blow it was intended to be, and he feels himself stiffen. If he was in any way inclined toward violence, he’d hit this man, right here, right now. He learned his lesson about that as a teenager, though, so he just turns around and walks back out of the room. He almost pauses at the door to say something stupid like, “Make yourself at home,” because polite host has been trained into him by this point, after five years of being Howard’s trophy wife, but he doesn’t, because after Tuesday, when the will gets read, this place will probably be Anthony’s, and even Steve doesn’t have the nerve to tell a man to make himself at home in his own mansion.

Steve goes upstairs to his room, after that, needing to get away. He doesn’t go to the room he sleeps in with Howard, but the other one, the one that’s just his, where he keeps his art supplies and all the other things Howard doesn’t want cluttering up the place. It’s the only room in the mansion that feels like he belongs there, so it’s always been the place he goes when he’s upset or feeling lonely. Howard doesn’t mind, well, didn’t mind anyway, because Howard never noticed. He was a busy man, Steve knows, with limited time, and if that made him not a particularly good husband, well, that’s just the way things go. Steve knew what he was getting into when he married the man, knew what he was signing up for. He just wishes he also knew how cheap the whole thing would make him feel, even five years down the road.

 

They met at a charity event where Steve was waiting tables for the rich and famous who could afford the $10,000 per plate. Steve didn’t begrudge them their wealth, but he did wish they’d be a bit nicer. The thing about rich people was that they always think they’re entitled to anything and everything. For example, the dark haired older gentleman who’d been staring at Steve all night, flagging him over for refills of his very expensive wine every time the glass reached the point of being only three-quarters full. Steve went when he was called and smiled at the man, seriously uncomfortable with the way the guy was clearly undressing him with his eyes, but needing the money too badly to do anything about it. He’d only gotten his gig because the catering service needed an extra person at the last minute, so he wasn’t about to ruin his chances for maybe getting another job with them, just because he felt a little embarrassed.

After the dinner was over and the dancing had begun, Steve set about clearing off tables and hauling everything back into the kitchen, along with the other waiters and waitresses. He wasn’t all that surprised when the man approached him. It didn’t happen to Steve often, because even thogh he’d finally gotten his growth spurt, he was still painfully skinny and he knew it. Still, this man had been fairly obvious about his intentions, and now all Steve had to decide was how to handle the whole thing.

“Hi,” he said, smiling again, both because it was the polite thing to do and because he was hoping for a tip. “Can I help you?”

“You should come home with me tonight,” the man said, and Steve blinked, shocked. He hadn’t expected the guy to just come out and say it like that.

“I- uh…” Steve started but wasn’t sure how to finish that sentence. He was flattered, certainly, but he didn’t just go home with strange men, no matter how rich they were.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” the man told him.

Steve was no whore, didn’t take money for sex, but this offer, it wasn’t the same as standing on the corner with the two-dollar prostitutes waiting for filthy men to pick him up and maybe murder him. This man was wealthy, clearly famous, though Steve wasn’t quite sure where he’d seen him before, and was offering a good deal more than those johns on the street. And Steve, for all his convictions, for all that he knew this was the wrong thing to do, needed the money very badly.

“Okay,” he said, feeling like a terrible person but doing it anyway. “Just let me get cleaned up.”

The man’s name was Howard, Steve learned on the limo ride to his honest-to-goodness mansion. He was Howard Stark and he owned a multi-billion dollar company that made weapons. He didn’t make any moves on Steve while they were still in the limo, but once they were inside the mansion, he dragged Steve straight up the stairs and into the master bedroom, without even giving Steve time to look around the place or offering him a drink or anything. Not that Steve would have accepted, because he was underage and the man was clearly quite drunk already from the function, but that didn’t matter, anyway, because apparently a drink wasn’t on the table.

Once they were in the bedroom, it was all pretty straightforward. Howard had Steve undress and sit on the bed, then laid him out and fucked him. Steve didn’t have much experience, but Howard seemed to like how he blushed and stuttered, anyway, so that was fine. It wasn’t good sex, exactly, but it was okay. Howard was pretty fit, for an older man, and the way he looked at him the whole time, like he was the most attractive thing he’d ever seen, well, even Steve couldn’t ignore that.

Afterward, Howard let him stay the night and then, in the morning, by the time Steve woke up, the man himself was already gone, in a meeting apparently, according to the note on the dresser, which welcomed Steve to stay for breakfast. He found his way back downstairs and to the kitchen after only a little bit of searching, and a very nice butler made him eggs and toast. He also, quite discreetly, handed Steve an envelope as he was getting ready to leave. Steve took it, blushing and ashamed, but didn’t look inside until he was clear of the house. The man offered to have Steve driven back to wherever he needed to go, but Steve wanted this whole thing to be over as soon as possible, so he could stop thinking about how he was a whore now, so he just thanked him awkwardly and called a cab.

It wasn’t until later that day that he finally got the nerve to open the envelope. He figured it would be a decent amount, but when he finally counted the money, he was absolutely blown away. It was five thousand dollars! That was ten times the amount Steve usually made in a week. And he needed the money so badly, so he pushed down his urge to take it all back and reclaim his convictions, and instead deposited it.

And that was the end of it, he thought. Except, a week later, Howard called him, asked him to come over again. Steve wasn’t sure where he got the number, but he supposed a man that rich and powerful could do anything he liked, so he didn’t dwell on it for too long. He fought himself on it, but knew the more money he had, the better he could do the things he needed to do, so in the end, he agreed, and went back to the mansion for more hired sex.

It went on like that for a few months before Howard made a proposal. It wasn’t a marriage proposal, exactly, but more like a business proposal. If Steve married him, it would be better for both of them. He could be Howard’s trophy wife instead of his dirty little secret, and since he was a starving artist, it would improve Howard’s credibility with the public. And Steve, he could everything he ever wanted, never have to worry about rent or food or any of those things he used to pull his hair out worrying about. It seemed like a good deal, and at least if it was a marriage it would mean he was no longer a prostitute. His new title would probably be something closer to gold-digger, instead, but he could live with that, because he knew it wasn’t true.

Of course, then Howard told him the stipulations of the agreement, and it nearly broke Steve’s heart. He wasn’t sure he could do it, for a long, long time, but then he remembered what it was like to be hungry and cold as a child, and knew that this was for the best. So he agreed, and they got engaged, and Steve made a standing appointment every Sunday to drive upstate and renew his convictions.

They got married three weeks later, and Steve didn’t find out until the night before the wedding, when an angry, drunk teenager broke into the mansion, that Howard even had a son. It made things more awkward, in a way, marrying this man when his son was only three years younger than Steve. The kid lived in Boston, though, was apparently some kind of prodigy and already in college, so they would hardly ever see each other. Howard brushed the boy off the whole time he was there, alternated between ignoring him and insulting him. It wasn’t a side of the man Steve had seen before, but it didn’t change anything, really. And besides, the boy was rude and crass, offensive every chance he got, and Steve started to think that, maybe, Howard had the right idea of it. Steve knew better than anyone, after all, that children didn’t always grow up to be what you’d raised them to be.

So Steve married Howard, and then Anthony went back to Boston and stayed there. Steve accompanied Howard to events, had sex with him at night and mostly kept to himself, apart from that. It was terribly lonely, but it was what needed done, and Steve was never one to let his personal feelings get in the way of his duty. He did what he had to, and pushed the feeling of being a prostitute deep inside.

Now, though, five years later, with Anthony back in the house, probably for good, Steve can’t help but let all those feelings come back to the surface. He knows what Anthony calls him, behind his back, and he can’t even dispute it, because it’s true. Steve is a whore, and he’s under no illusions to the contrary. But he’s also a widower, and he’s honestly not sure which of those things hurts worse. One thing he is not, however, is a gold-digger, and no matter what’s in that will on Tuesday, Steve’s not going to fight it. At this point, he just wants to get on with his life, be the best person he can be to make up for all the not-so-great decisions he’s made in the past. If Anthony’s on the same page, there’s absolutely no reason why they can’t get along. Of course, that’s never stopped them from fighting before, and he suspects it won’t stop them now, either. If Anthony wants a fight, and Steve suspects he does, there’s nothing Steve’s going to be able to do to stop it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first of all, there's a plot device here that I'm well aware is ridiculous and also not how it probably works in rl, but I'm not a lawyer, so just bear with me, here.
> 
> On a side note, the stipulations of Steve and Howard's marriage aren't mentioned in this chapter, but that doesn't mean they're not causing consequences ;)
> 
> Oh, also warning for serious mention of Maria's suicide and the effect it had on Tony :(

Tony’s not proud of it, exactly, except maybe in the deepest parts of him where he still really just wants to say, “Fuck you,” to his dad, but he gets so drunk on Sunday night that he very nearly sleeps through the funeral. The only reason he wakes up at all, and he’s not sure whether he’s grateful or pissed about this, is that Steve comes into his room Monday morning and shakes him awake.

“What do you want?” Tony asks, blinking up at him groggily. It’s a whole lot of pretty to be staring at, this early in the morning and that just makes Tony even more pissed off than he already was to be woken up. What right does this Whore have to be so goddamn attractive?

“Jarvis and I are leaving now,” Steve tells him and he looks disapproving in that upright, stick-up-his-ass way he has. “The funeral is in an hour. Don’t be late.”

“Fine,” Tony snaps. “Whatever.” His throat hurts like a sonofabitch, and his head is throbbing. There is absolutely nothing he wants less than to go to his father’s funeral, but the old bastard might have some stipulation he doesn’t know about in his will about pretending they cared about each other, so it’s probably better safe than sorry.

That’s the end of it, or it should be, but Steve just keeps staring at him, waiting for him to actually get up, like he thinks he’s Tony’s keeper or something. The thought would be hilarious if it wasn’t so horrifying.

“I’m going,” Tony insists. “You can leave now. I won’t drown in the shower or anything, I swear.”

“Good,” Steve says, backing up a few paces. “And make sure you brush your teeth, because your breath smells like a liquor store.” Then he turns and walks out of the room.

Tony’s just not sure whether it’s sincere advice or Steve trying to be clever. Just to be safe he calls after him, “You’re not my real mother!” Steve doesn’t turn around or say anything back, but he does pause, back stiffening for a few moments before he continues down the hall, so Tony counts it as a win.

After the quickest shower he can manage in his hung-over state, Tony throws on the suit he picked out last night. He made his selection while three-fourths of the way through a bottle of bourbon, and it’s pretty evident in the way that the tie doesn’t match the vest at all. Once he swaps it out for a different one, though, he’s pretty pleased with the effect of the outfit. It’s not flashy enough to cause a scene, but not solemn enough for people to actually mistake him as a legitimate mourner. The tabloids will probably have a field day with it, but hey, that’s what Tony’s here for: to provide entertainment to the masses. 

By ‘here,’ Tony clarifies to himself, he totally means ‘here in the world,’ not ‘here at the funeral.’ He’s here at the funeral for altogether different reasons, ones that mainly include making sure he gets whatever’s coming to him in the will, so he can go back to pretending he doesn’t have a father and never has. That was the unspoken agreement Tony and his father have had for all these years, each pretending the other doesn’t exist, and just because the old man’s dead is no reason for Tony to break his end of the agreement.

 

The funeral’s a drag in the way these kinds of things always are. At least no one’s crying at this one, though. Tony hates crying, which, funnily enough, is a dislike he inherited or perhaps was trained into by his father. Actually, Howard would probably be pleased that no one’s crying at his funeral. Even Steve hasn’t shed a tear, though his eyes are suspiciously moist. Tony ignores that, though, because it gives him feelings he’s not in any way comfortable with examining. 

To combat all the sad in the room, he focuses on thinking about how much he hated his father. He focuses very hard on all the times the man slapped him around when he was younger, all the times he tried to show Howard some project he was working on and got brushed off. He thinks about finding his mother’s body in her bed, wrists slit and blood everywhere when he was nine years old. That last thought comes unbidden and it, at least, brings a lump to his throat, though it has nothing at all to do with his father. It leads to other, more uncomfortable thoughts, though, and Tony remembers good things about his father, too, the times when he was young, before his mother died, when his father still loved him. They went for ice cream, once, he remembers and talked about robots. A different time, they built a model airplane together and his father hadn’t even been mad when Tony accidentally/on purpose super-glued his hands together.

See, the voice in his brain says, Howard wasn’t such a terrible father. Not in the beginning. It was only after Tony let his mother die that things went to shit. No, he stops, backtracks and corrects himself. It was Howard’s fault, not his. Howard’s the reason she killed herself, not Tony, and he’s seen enough child psychologists over the years that he knows it’s true. He just forgets sometimes, is all, can only remember all the blood and his father’s voice saying, “You were supposed to watch her!” He knows the truth now, though: just because his father stopped loving him after his mother died, doesn’t mean it was his fault. Tony’s not the one who didn’t love her enough.

“Are you okay?”

Tony jerks upright in his seat and looks around wildly. Apparently he’s missed the end of the service, because everyone’s standing up and stretching, gathering their things. Jarvis, two rows back, is grabbing his girlfriend May’s hand. Obi, in the other aisle, has just started making the rounds with all the appropriate businessmen in attendance. Right in front of Tony, and apparently the one that spoke, is the Whore.

“Fine,” he says curtly. “Happy, even, that this snooze fest is finally over.”

Steve looks torn between wanting to scold Tony and not wanting to make a scene. “Why can’t you be respectful for just one day?” he hisses as a compromise between the two desires.

“Why can’t you be less of a priss?” Tony asks, not even bothering to keep his voice down. “It’s genetics, doll, and we’ve both been screwed over royally. Moral of the story: don’t have kids. I mean, look how it turned out for Howard.”

For some reason, Steve goes splotchy red at that, and not in an attractive way. More like a ‘so mad, I can’t even talk’ kind of way. He seethes for a few moments, just staring in disbelief at Tony, then he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Don’t cause a scene, Tony,” he hears from behind him and turns to see Obi there, looking disapproving. 

That, at least, is advice Tony’s had all his life, and he knows how to deal with it by now. “You know me, Obi,” he says, standing, “Can’t resist a good spectacle.”

“Can’t resist becoming a spectacle you mean,” Obi tells him, but he sounds fond.

“Yeah,” Tony says, “that.”

“Well,” Obi says drily. “Do try to resist, huh? Are you coming to the wake?”

“Sure,” Tony says, “Why not? Free food, right?”

“And exposure,” Obi reminds him. “If you’re planning on taking over the company in its entirety, you need the support of the board. That means meet and greets, kid.”

“I know,” Tony says, and he does. “I’ll be there.”

“Good boy,” Obi says and pats his shoulder.

At least someone thinks he is. Fuck Howard anyway, Tony thinks and goes to find a drink.

 

The wake is only a little better than the service. Tony does his best to glide through it. He shakes hands and makes small talk, both of which he’s an expert at by this point in his life. If there’s one thing Howard did for him, apart from that whole messy conception thing, it was teach him how to schmooze. Tony learned from the best, and by now he’s ready to take over the crown, surpass the master. With a little bit of maneuvering from Obi, it’s not long before Tony’s got all the appropriate parties eating out of the palm of his hand. It’s good, because Tony’s going to need all the help he can get if (when) he takes over the company. His father may have been a grade A dick, but he was also a first class businessman, and filling his shoes isn’t going to be easy.

The only times Tony gets distracted from his business ventures during the whole thing is when he accidently catches sight of the Whore, also making the rounds. His circle’s slightly different, of course, consisting mostly of the less important guests and the other trophy wives like him. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, exactly, though he’s got nothing on Tony for ease in social situations, but after five years of this shit, Steve’s probably got the hang of it by now. Tony would almost admire it, if he didn’t hate the guy so much.

By the time Tony’s done enough networking that he can escape the party without anyone noticing, he’s well on his way to drunk again. He doesn’t usually drink this much, honest, he doesn’t. It’s only while he’s here in New York that he gets the urge to have a drink in hand at all times. It could be something in the air, for all Tony knows, but he’s betting it has more to do with the tension that starts to build in his shoulders any time anyone even mentions his dad. One thing’s for sure, he’ll be super glad after tomorrow when the will gets read, because no matter what happens, he’ll be able to put this all behind him and just forget about the guy.

 

Or, that’s what he thinks, anyway. 

Tony gets up the next morning on his own, too anxious to sleep anymore, no matter what kind of drinking he did the night before. He showers, shaves and brushes his teeth, then goes downstairs to eat the toast Jarvis has ready for him. Steve’s there, too, also looking nervous.

By mutual silent agreement, they share a ride in to the SI office building and ride up to Howard’s old office together. The lawyer is already waiting for them inside and Tony has to remind himself that just because the guy looks bored doesn’t mean nothing shocking’s going to happen. Lawyers are just like that: boring.

The terms of the will, once they finally get to them, are pretty much what Tony envisioned, at least the beginning ones. Tony gets the mansion. Steve gets the equivalent of one-quarter of Howard’s estate, to be paid in the manner of his choosing. Tony gets the cars. Steve gets the antique motorcycle collection. Tony gets the company. Tony gets Steve.

“What the fuck?” Tony asks, at the same time Steve says, “Wait, what?”

The lawyer looks up at them, obviously annoyed at being interrupted. “The terms of the will are to be complied with fully or not at all,” he says tersely. “One of the terms is that the two of you must marry before any other term can be carried out. If these terms are not met, the estate will be sold and the money donated to charity.”

Steve and Tony look at each other wide-eyed, for once in complete and total agreement. Whatever Howard thinks he’s doing, it’s seriously not funny. Why? Tony thinks. No, really, what the fuck was the bastard doing?

“I’m having my lawyer look into this,” Tony tells the other two men. He doesn’t have a lawyer, but he’ll get one. Hell, he’ll study inheritance law himself if he has to before he goes along with this crap.

“Be my guest,” the lawyer says snootily, “But this will is extremely solid.” Then he gets on with the reading, like nothing even happened. 

There aren’t any more surprises after that, thankfully. Howard must have thought one was enough. He was right, too: Tony’s still in shock about this marriage thing, and Steve looks about the same. After the will’s been read in its entirety, Tony takes his copy and gets gone. He doesn’t offer Steve a ride back to the mansion, mostly because he can’t even look at the guy without feeling mounting horror, like he’s going to be trapped into this bullshit marriage and his body already knows it, even if his mind won’t accept it yet.

Tony doesn’t go back to the mansion, either. Instead, he goes straight out and finds the best lawyer he can on short notice and pays the lady double her fee to find a quick and easy solution to this problem with the will. Then he goes to a bar and gets a drink. One of these days, he swears, he’ll stop drinking, but it sure as fuck isn’t going to be until his dad stops messing with his head like this. Still, it’ll be fine. The lawyer will get him out of it, he’s sure.

Except, a week later, the lawyer calls him and confirms what Howard’s lawyer already told him. The will is solid, completely legal. If Tony wants the company, and he does more than breathing, then he’s going to have to marry the Whore.


	4. Chapter 4

“Are you sure there’s absolutely no way to get out of this?” Anthony asks. 

His back is to Steve and he’s on his cell phone, not even caring how impolite it is to be taking a phone call while other people are in the room. Not that Steve disagrees with what he’s trying to do; he doesn’t want to marry Anthony any more than Anthony wants to marry him. Steve’s had enough of being a trophy wife, to be honest. He’d thought that the silver lining of Howard’s death was that the stipulations would no longer be an issue anymore. He wasn’t expecting to inherit all of Howard’s fortune, didn’t even want that much. All he wanted was enough to take care of himself and fulfill his responsibilities. Howard’s will blew that all out of the water, though. If Steve doesn’t marry Anthony, doesn’t keep to the stipulations, he gets nothing, not one dime and then he’ll be right back to where he started before he married Howard at all. Steve can’t go back to that, can’t let that happen, so he’s left with no choice but to marry Anthony, no matter how rude the boy is.

“No, but what if we just got married and then got divorced real quick?” Anthony asks desperately into the phone.

It won’t work, Steve knows. This is Anthony’s fourth time having this conversation with his lawyer and the second time Steve’s been in the room for it. The will specifically dictates the terms of the marriage: no less than one year living together in one household. After the year is up, they can each go their separate ways, but until then, they’re stuck together. A year isn’t that long, relatively, but for Steve, who knows exactly what he’s missing while he’s here playing housewife, it might as well be an eternity.

“Okay,” Anthony agrees, still speaking to the lawyer. “But what if we- no, I know that! I’m just saying, it might work out, okay?”

Steve sighs and starts to fill in the shading on the portrait he’s drawing. The hair is always a little difficult to get right, just the right degree of curls. The tilt of the nose is always just a little bit too crooked when Steve draws it, too. If he had more time with the model, he knows he’d be able to do it better, but as it is, he mostly draws from memory. Art school wasn’t that long ago, he knows, but it’s been over a year and a half since he finished, since the last time he’s picked up a pen and paper for anything more serious than doodling. He should practice more, work on things less difficult than this portrait for now, then maybe he’d start to come back into the skills he worked so hard to perfect.

“Who’s that?” Anthony asks, standing right over Steve’s shoulder. 

Startled, Steve snaps the sketchbook closed and blushes. He hadn’t even heard Anthony finish his phone call. “No one,” he says at once. It’s better for everyone if Anthony doesn’t know anything about Steve’s past. Howard never told anyone about it, as far as Steve knows, not even Obadiah. Jarvis found out incidentally, because he’s very observant and was also indirectly related in the whole thing, but he’d promised not to tell, not even to Anthony, whom he probably adores more than anyone else.

“Okay,” Anthony says slowly. He doesn’t look angry yet, but Steve knows from experience that it’s only a matter of time until they get into yet another fight about nothing. They’ve been in something of a truce for these past few days while Anthony does everything in his power to get them out of this mess. Steve’s definitely supportive of the plan, even if he knows it won’t work, so he’s been making himself scarce whenever Anthony starts to get angry at other things. As long as they don’t see each other or speak to each other at all, they generally have no problem not fighting. It’s only when they make contact that problems arise. “Whatever.”

“Did your lawyer find anything?” Steve asks, trying not to be hopeful.

“No,” Anthony all but growls. “Nothing.” He looks at Steve scathingly and Steve can almost see the hate come back into his eyes as he remembers who he’s talking to. “Not that it matters to you, I guess. Warm bed’s a warm bed, right? And it’s not like the money’ll change.”

Steve very determinedly does not retort. He’s got things to say to that, protests to make. He’s not a gold-digger, even if he is a whore, and though Anthony doesn’t realize it, it does make a difference whose bed he’s warming. At least with Howard, he’d always known where he stood. Howard never did anything to make Steve feel like a whore, not like Anthony, who tries every chance he gets to make Steve more ashamed than he already is, like he has any right to judge the decisions Steve’s made in his life when Anthony’s exploits are all over the tabloids on a weekly basis.

The tabloids, of course, are something Steve’s trying extremely hard not to notice. He’s never been one for celebrity gossip, but the magazines are always positioned in the exact right place that one can’t help but read the headlines as one waits in line at the bodega down the street where Steve shops. Jarvis does most of the shopping, of course, so it doesn’t happen often, but every time Steve ventures into a store lately, he can’t help but notice that he and Anthony are the story of the week. He’s not sure who sold the story to the press about their upcoming nuptials, but Steve is absolutely not a fan of whoever it was. He supposes everyone has to make a living somehow and not everyone can have a respectable job. Some people, like him, take money for sex, while others take money for gossip. Still, it’s a terrible inconvenience to have people gawking at him after reading the rags, not to mention embarrassing. He’s had more people taking unsubtle pictures of him this past week than he has since his wedding to Howard. It’ll only get worse, he knows, once this new wedding happens.

Thinking about all of this makes his head hurt, and Anthony’s angry gaze isn’t helping matters. “I’m going to lie down,” he tells the man, his soon-to-be-husband. He stands up and leaves the room clutching his sketchbook to his chest, without waiting for Anthony to answer. He doesn’t need Anthony’s permission to do things. They’re not married yet, after all, and even after they do get married, Steve refuses to become a submissive, meek little spouse. That’s not the type of person he was with Howard and it’s not the type of person he’s going to allow himself to become with Anthony. Marital duties he can abide by; rules of engagement, sure. He’ll do what needs to be done, show up to all the right parties, talk to all the right people, have sex when required. All of those things he’d done for Howard and he knows that’s what it costs to be married to a rich man. He won’t submit, though, that’s non-negotiable. Steve is going to continue to be exactly who he is, and damn Anthony or anyone else who tries to stop him.

He can feel the muscles in his neck tightening, but he makes it up the stairs and into his bedroom, his own room and not the master one, before the headache really hits full force. It’s been a seriously long time since he’s last had a headache this bad. He used to get them all the time, back before he married Howard, back when he wasn’t getting enough to eat more often than not. It’s genetic, he thinks, because his mother used to get them when he was a child before she died, and that in itself is honestly very worrying, but Steve’s in too much pain to even think about it. He manages to set his sketchbook down on the bedside table and get the lights all turned off before he collapses onto the bed. The sheets feel cool against his skin, but it’s not enough, and all he can do is close his eyes and try to breathe through it.

He lies and he breathes and sometimes he drifts off but mostly doesn’t, until some indiscriminate amount of time later, he feels a wet cloth on his forehead. His first thought is Howard, but then he comes to his sense and realizes Howard’s never done this for him. Jarvis, then, though Steve can’t make his eyes focus on the man.

“Thanks,” he manages as the coolness of the cloth starts to soak into his skin. 

“Indeed, sir,” Jarvis says softly. 

Steve thinks he can feel the old man running fingers through his hair. It’s a soothing gesture and he lets himself sink back down into a doze again.

 

It’s completely dark outside when Steve comes back to himself. The first thing he notices is that the muscles in his neck and back are all stiff and sore, but the ache in his head is mostly gone. The clock on the wall reads 9:37. It had been midafternoon when the headache came on, which means he’s been down for hours. It’s not his worst spell, then, but it’s been a good long time since he’s had one this bad. It’s the stress of the situation, he knows. He hasn’t been this stressed in years. For all the melancholy and loneliness of living with Howard, it was at least a comfortable existence. 

One thing’s for sure now, though, and that’s that Steve will be relieved once all this wedding business is out of the way. Things will be able to sink into a routine, then. Anthony will be able to run his company and that will hopefully take up the majority of his time, leaving Steve alone in the mansion with only Jarvis and his sketchbook for company. It’s not a fun prospect, exactly, but it is a low-stress one, and mostly Steve thinks that’s all he can ask for out of the situation.

After stretching and rolling his neck to get some of the tension out, Steve stands on unstable legs and goes into the bathroom that adjoins his room. He empties his bladder and splashes some water on his face with shaky hands. His reflection in the mirror looks pale, paler than usual, anyway, and his eyes are dark. Not unexpected, that, but sometimes he wishes the pain of the headaches would leave a more obvious mark than the slight tension lines still around his eyes. Well, never mind, he thinks, and heads downstairs.

It’s past supper, but Steve’s not that hungry, anyway. He usually isn’t after his little spells, but he knows that if he doesn’t eat anything at all he’ll be sorry for it in the morning. There’s a bowl full of apples in the kitchen, so Steve snags a red one and forces himself to eat the whole thing before downing a full two glasses of water. He does feel slightly less wobbly afterward, too. Nutrition and hydration, he thinks, the keys to a healthy life.

When he’s finished in the kitchen and disposed of the apple core, he makes his way into the other rooms on this floor. He’s not sure Jarvis will still be up, but if he is, Steve wants to find him and thank him for his kindness earlier. Steve’s grown very fond of the butler over the past five years and he always likes to thank the man for the things he does, especially those that go above and beyond the call of duty. Howard rarely bothered, but that’s just all the more reason for Steve to make the effort.

The lights are still on in the sitting room, so Steve checks there first. The room seems empty at first glance, but as Steve’s crossing the room to hit the light switch, shaking his head in exasperation at Anthony wasting electricity like this, something catches his eye. 

It’s Anthony, of course, curled up on the sofa, suit jacket mostly off. One hand is curled up under his head as a pillow, which would be slightly endearing, despite everything, if Steve couldn’t also see that the other hand is still clutching a mostly-empty bottle of scotch.

“Oh, Anthony,” Steve says to himself, crossing to the sleeping boy and prying the bottle out of his hand. Anthony doesn’t even stir, out cold. Steve disposes of the bottle, emptying what remains of it into the sink, then goes to the hall closet where he knows Jarvis keeps the spare blankets. Anthony’s still on the sofa dead to the world, when Steve gets back, so he just covers him up as best he can, tucking in the edges of the blanket. Safe and secure, he thinks, from everyone but himself.

“You’re turning into your father,” Steve tells the sleeping boy. “You’re going to be just like him and there’s nothing either of us can do about it.”

It’s the truth and Steve hates it. He’s never especially liked Anthony, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about him. The boy’s been spoiled all his life with everything but the things that matter and even Steve can see that Howard was at least partially to blame. What the man thinks he’s doing now, with this silly will, Steve just doesn’t know. He does know, though, that deep down, Howard loved his son. He doesn’t think Anthony really believes that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not true. Howard was a tough man to get an honest emotion out of, but Steve’s seen him drunk and morose more than probably anyone else on the planet, and he’s heard how the man felt about his son first hand.

Well, Steve thinks, checking one last time that Anthony’s completely covered before heading back upstairs. Maybe, just maybe, something good will come out of his marriage after all. Not for himself, no, but for Anthony. Steve’s stuck here, no matter what happens, but if there’s even the slightest chance he can help Anthony come to terms with who his father was and how he felt about him, well, it might all be worth it in the end.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is hella short, but at least it's an update, right? I dunno what Tony's deal is here, either, but I think he might be losing his shit.

Tuesday, exactly two weeks after his father’s funeral, Tony attends and reluctantly participates in the least romantic wedding of the century. It’s not a big, fancy white-tie affair, nor is it a quaint and romantic elopement. It’s more like Tony and the Whore in the City Clerk’s Office with Obi and Jarvis standing in as witnesses. They flash their IDs, sign some papers, Tony pays the waiver and boom, that’s it, they’re married. 

The whole thing takes less than twenty minutes, which is twenty minutes Tony could be using to do something important, like inventing something or getting drunk. It’s just way more hassle than Tony actually wants to go through for the whole damn farce, but Obi keeps pinching him every time he tries to back out and reminding him it’s for the good of the company. In fact, the only good thing about the whole affair is that Steve looks just as miserable as Tony feels. Not that Tony’s aiming for solidarity with the man he’s being forced to marry, but he does love to see the Whore miserable. It doesn’t make up for this bullshit, but it does make it slightly better.

And then, that’s it, game over. They part ways on the street without having said a single word to one another or even touched at all the entire time. Steve catches a ride with Jarvis back to do whatever the fuck it is he does all day at the mansion, and Tony and Obi get back to work. It’s not painless, by any means, but at least it’s over and that’s what matters. The company is Tony’s and he fucking earned it.

 

It’s harder work than Tony would have anticipated, running the company. It’s a lot of schmoozing, for one thing, and Tony hates that, hates how much it reminds him of his father. He hates it even more that every single person he meets with in his ten gajillion meetings seems to have some stupid anecdote about the old man that they think he just has to hear. Immediately after his wedding, Tony listens to the head of Financing waste twenty minutes of meeting time to expound upon the beauty of Howard’s life, and it’s all Tony can do to keep a straight face. He has to keep biting his lip to stop himself from bursting into hysterical laughter every time phrases like ‘best of his generation’ and ‘community leader’ pop up. He’s honestly not sure how these stupid fucks didn’t see the real Howard, the cradle-robber and the wife-killer, but Tony isn’t going to stand for this shit. He’ll give them today to talk about it, but tomorrow, he’s implementing some kinda policy where he never, ever has to hear about his father again. Obi’ll probably tell him it’s impossible, but Tony’s got lawyers; he’ll figure this shit out.

In the meantime, the other things Tony has to worry about are: connecting with the heads of every department, making some kind of company-wide statement, setting new and improved goals for progress, preparing for next month’s meeting with the board of trustees, and getting all his shit moved back from Boston, avoiding Steve as much as possible, and finding a PA who can put up with him. Some of those Obi will have his back for, but others, particularly that one about Steve, Tony’s all on his own. Luckily, ‘all on his own’ is a condition Tony knows intimately and can work with.

 

Steve’s drawing again when Tony gets back to the mansion that night. He’s in the sitting room with his sketch pad and a pencil and he looks fucking bored. Tony spares a moment to actually contemplate what the guy does all day. He has a vague idea that housewives are supposed to clean and cook and take care of the kids and stuff, but Jarvis does the cooking and they’ve got a housemaid who comes in everyday to clean, which means that all Steve really has to do is watch the kids. And since there aren’t any kids either, come to think of it, all Steve has to do all day is sit around watching soaps or something. 

“Hey,” Steve says when he catches sight of Tony and he waves awkwardly. “Are you hungry? Jarvis took the night off, but he left some spaghetti on the stove.”

Tony sort of gags a little at the idea of spaghetti. “I ate,” he says tersely. They’d worked straight through fucking dinner and Obi had forced him to eat even though he’d been seriously not hungry. 

“Oh,” Steve says softly. “Okay.”

He doesn’t look away, though, just keeps watching as Tony crosses the room to the bar and gets a drink: rum, today, because they’re out of the good scotch and Tony isn’t desperate enough to drink his father’s brand of whiskey quite yet. When he turns back around, Steve is still watching him.

“Like what you see?” Tony asks, cocking a hip. He’s attractive and he’s used to looks, but not from fucking Steve of all people, and anyway, it’s not that sort of look, not really. It’s not exactly the judgmental look, either, which is what he usually does get from Steve.

“Not especially,” Steve says under his breath. To Tony, he says, “Do you need anything?”

“A divorce,” Tony tells him at once. “And more scotch. If you’ve got either of those, feel free to share with the class. If not, fuck off.”

“You don’t have to be so unpleasant,” Steve says and he sounds frustrated. 

The tone of his voice makes Tony’s stomach clench in excitement; he’s been itching for a fight all day, needs the distraction from his shitty life. “Woulda thought you’d be used to it by now,” he says, grinning sharply. “Or maybe not, actually. I mean, I bet most people are nicer after you’ve let them come in your ass, huh?”

Steve blanches and the sight of it makes Tony’s breathing pick up a notch and his toes curl. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Steve says tightly. “You’re the expert in that sort of thing, aren’t you?”

“In prostitution?” Tony asks innocently. “Or do you mean having a sugar daddy? ‘Cuz no, not really. I’m not the one contractually obligated to spread my legs. That’s all you, pal. I hope the dirty bastard at least tipped you after he was done fucking you.”

“It’s not like that!” Steve says and it’s not quite a shout but he’s angry now. He stands, fists clenched and for a second Tony’s sure there’s going to be a brawl, that Steve’s going to come at him and punch him. He doesn’t, though, just rocks back on his heels and scowls. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Anthony.”

Tony’s eyes narrow at the name, the way Steve just casually calls him what his mother Christened him and his father spent years never saying. “What,” he scoffs, fighting to keep the grin on his face. “Did you like it or something? Did it get you off, knowing you were being reimbursed for your efforts?”

He can see it, can just picture Steve slipping away from stupid fucking Howard’s bed, slipping into the bathroom with a black AmEx in one hand and caressing it while he jerked himself off because Howard hadn’t bothered. Maybe he fingered himself open. Maybe he set the card on the counter so he could look at it while using both hands, or maybe he’d put it into his mouth, got the feel of it with his tongue.

“Stop it,” Steve says, and his anger has turned into pure rage, Tony can tell. “Shut your mouth. Do it right now. You don’t know anything about me except that your father preferred me to you and you can’t stand that.” 

He’s gorgeous and he’s right and everything about him pisses Tony off so much he can’t even handle it. 

“I know plenty,” Tony says. He’s still grinning but it feels wrong, somehow, like the skin around his mouth is too tight. “You’re a fucking open book. It’s not about the money, is it? Were you just so desperate to get fucked that you’d have had anyone willing? You weren’t Howard’s whore for the money, were you, Steve? You were his whore because no one else would have your sorry ass.”

Tony’s not expecting the slap, but he supposes it’s better than a punch, even though it stings like hell and is probably going to leave a mark. He brings his hand up to his face on instinct, can feel the heat of where the welt is already forming. 

“Go to hell, Anthony,” Steve says. 

Then he’s grabbing his sketchbook and running out of the room before Tony’s even got time to think of a reply. Tony watches him go, then lets his hand fall away from his face, which has moved past stinging into actual pain. He looks at the empty room for a second, and then looks down at his glass of rum. Not even a drop has spilled, he notices with some triumph, so he takes a swallow, wincing at where there must be cuts inside his mouth from his teeth.

Go to hell, Steve had said, but he doesn’t know. 

“I’m already there,” Tony says to himself. He knocks back the rest of the glass and pours himself some more.


End file.
